


wanna have some fun before the main event?

by cherryvaleska



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e14 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Jerome Valeska, jerome being vaguely creepy lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvaleska/pseuds/cherryvaleska
Summary: “You’re going out either way, Bruce," Jerome begins, cheshire grin widening as Bruce’s struggles return with far more determination, "so why not go out with abang?”
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 16
Kudos: 51





	wanna have some fun before the main event?

**Author's Note:**

> first fic posted this year let's goooooo. honestly i've been adding to this on and off since november and i'd PLANNED to have it uploaded sometime in december, but life just doesn't always work out that way lol.
> 
> i debated just waiting until i finished this to upload it, since realistically speaking it IS supposed to be just porn but... i wanted to upload something before the end of january lol *shrugs*
> 
> also, it's mentioned in here that jerome and bruce first met at a circus because that's a little tidbit from one of the gotham novels that will not let me sleep at night, so i have to shove it in front of everyone's faces at any opportunity i can. i also changed a minute detail; bruce is blindfolded because that's far more fun than a bag over his head. thank you for listening.
> 
> as the tags (and the title and the description lol) imply, the next chapter is where all the Fun Stuff is going to happen. speaking of the title, i feel like we all know what that's from ;)

The last time Jerome had seen Bruce Wayne, he’d been a frail wisp of a thing. 

A head full of soft curls, a sweet little face filled with undisguised fear and distress as Jerome plucked him away from his butler, and a fragile body swallowed up in a designer suit that surely cost more than Jerome’s childhood trailer had. 

Jerome had held Bruce’s little body against his own and felt how the kid had trembled against him, all wet puppy eyes and shaky fawn limbs, so clearly terrified but still keeping himself at the mercy of someone who lacked such a thing. He hadn’t struggled or fought against Jerome’s hold, and Jerome had been sure then and is still sure now that it wasn’t to keep himself safe. No, it was to keep the butler safe, to keep the people of the benefit safe, to keep Jerome’s attention on him and only him because otherwise there was no telling what would happen. 

_What’s courage?_

There was something so fascinating about a lamb that didn’t need to be forced into pliability for its slaughter, but would raise its head and bare its soft throat for the blade instead. 

_Grace under pressure._

Bruce had been the perfect choice for Galavan’s goal, the perfect sacrifice, and Jerome is pleased to find that some things really just don’t change. 

Bruce’s big doe eyes stare into his own, the light of the fire warming his soft features and highlighting the tones hiding in his black curls, a deep voice that _cracks_ so cutely when he angrily says, “Killing me should _mean_ something, and you’re telling me no one’s going to see it?!” 

No, some things don’t change, but _others_ sure do. 

Bruce is not the child that he once was. He’s still young, sure, young enough that Jerome knows that ol’ Jimbo would be more than happy to throw him in Blackgate for at _least_ twenty years if he had even the slightest clue of all the awful no good things that are currently floating around inside of Jerome’s skull, but Bruce is not a little boy anymore. 

He’s grown up in Jerome’s absence and distantly, Jerome almost feels like a kid on Christmas morning, opening up a present and finding a shiny new toy that he aches to play with. Not that he would know what that was like, given that Lila was, well, _Lila_ , but he digresses. 

Jerome’s eyes trail over Bruce, from his still soft and boyish face, lingering on the beginnings of a sharp jawline that is practically begging to be traced by the tip of a knife or Jerome’s lips or maybe even both, down his black clad body. Black, black, always in black. Bruce is such a melancholic, dramatic little thing. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so predictable. 

He’s gotten so much bigger, so much prettier, and the sight of Jerome’s knife at this boy’s throat is so much more enticing this time around. He’d had fun the first time, sure, with his knife pressed against the trembling throat of such an adorable, innocent little boy, excitement and adrenaline pumping through his veins, but it’s different now. 

Excitement courses through them now too but it’s for far more than just to feel the soft flesh of Bruce’s pretty pink throat give way under his knife. 

Jerome wants to open him up and play with him. Cut him out of those dark, depressing clothes and see just how pretty he really is, see if his body is just as soft and sweet as his face. Cut him open and toy with his innards like he toys with his mind. 

Split him open on his cock and fuck his brains out of his pretty little head. 

He grins at Bruce, wide and feral, his eyes lit up with the same glee he’d felt _that night._ Bruce had said he was quite the showman, and oh, how Bruce knew him well! Jerome could be proud of him if he tried. It was almost flattering too, even if flattery wasn't going to get him anywhere. Still, it nearly makes Jerome want to preen under the praise. He holds the urge at bay, head tipping. 

“You’re saying I need an audience?” 

Jerome had been born a showman, had died a showman. Of course he needed an audience for his special night, for the true consummation of the event that would have marked him as a star in the eyes of the entire city, and for the marvelous, bloody end of Gotham’s young billionaire darling. 

He’s not ignorant, though. He knows Bruce is just trying to manipulate him, trying to buy himself more time, but it doesn’t leave Jerome any less charmed, any less excited. He’s eager to see the look on Bruce’s face when he runs out of options and has no choice but to meet his death head on at Jerome’s hands. 

Jerome trails the tip of his knife down the collar of Bruce’s turtleneck, bright eyes taking in the shudder he’s sure Bruce tries oh _so_ hard to hide. 

“Ah, look,” Jerome sighs, and Bruce’s determined, self-satisfied expression is so terribly fitting for a billionaire brat who thinks he’s won. His palm splays over the back of Bruce’s neck and he jerks him in closer, the tip of his knife rising to meet the action. He only barely resists plunging the tip into Bruce's throat, and it’s extremely gratifying to wipe that bratty little look off Bruce’s face. 

“I know you’re just trying to buy time so that you can escape, but..” He leans closer, lips brushing Bruce’s skin and he can feel him shudder again. “Your point is still valid,” Jerome singsongs, tapping the tip of his knife against Bruce's chin and feeling far giddier than he had when this night began.

Fear flickers through the determination in Bruce's eyes, and Jerome's not so sure he can resist waiting until they get to the carnival -- because what would be a more perfect location for the show-stopping final act of their story other than Gotham's own carnival of dreams? Bruce and Jerome had met at a circus, it only seemed fair that they should part at the next closest thing -- to play with him. 

Jerome's gaze flickers to the butler. He's still on his knees of course, looking up at Jerome like he would wish for nothing more than to tear his throat out with his bare hands, and for a moment he considers doing it right in front of him. Bringing Bruce to his ruin in front of the closest thing he has left to family before he brings him to his finish in front of the people of Gotham.

_How's that for an audience, Bruce._

Jerome suppresses a piggish snort at the thought.

Ultimately he decides against it, his hand sliding from Bruce's nape to the short curls just above it, twisting them through his fingers. Soft, soft, so unbearably soft. 

He turns slightly, pulling his face away from Bruce’s with a wide grin to shout at his followers.

"Time to get this show on the road, boys!" 

His fingers pull from Bruce’s hair to the lobe of his ear and he pinches it, tugging him along as he walks. The action brings a memory wriggling to the forefront of his mind; he remembers when Lila did the same to him far more harshly, her shrill voice ringing in his ears as she hauled him away from the Waynes, lecturing and berating him for being ‘a loathsome, embarrassing bastard.’ 

Jerome’s gaze slides to Bruce briefly, scanning over his scrunched up face, and not for the first time Jerome wonders if Bruce remembers that day at the circus, if he remembers chiding Jerome and telling him that being rude wasn’t _funny_. Jerome doubts that he does, and he’s not sure if he’s offended or amused by that thought. 

He mentally shrugs it off. You win some, you lose some. Onto more important things.

Jerome dismissively waves an open palm at his cultists.

"Get rid of the butler, would ya? He doesn't get a ticket to this show. It’s a, ya know, VIP only kind of event." 

Bruce would probably find comfort in his butler if he were in the audience and that just wouldn't do. He wants Bruce hopeless and terrified when his time comes. Jerome wouldn’t, and won’t, have it any other way.

Bruce shouts indignantly and jerks against Jerome’s pull as he’s led from the study to the front door to the waiting van outside. His boys take over from there and Bruce struggles against them too as they bind his hands behind his back and as they blindfold him. Jerome climbs into the back of the van and is more than happy to pull a still struggling Bruce along with him, sitting down and settling Bruce in his lap. 

The boy in question is, unsurprisingly, far from happy with the position and he tries to pull away immediately, but Jerome's arm winding around his waist effectively stops him. He yanks Bruce flush against his chest, his hand smoothing up his front to splay across his heaving chest. It's a familiar feeling, Bruce's body pressed against his own, only now his interest isn't just in killing the boy. He smooths his thumb against Bruce while his knife suddenly makes a return to his free hand, the tip pressing under Bruce's chin. He can hear Bruce's breath catch and he's honestly not sure if it's the threat of the knife or his touch that causes the reaction. 

"Now, now, none of that, Brucie. Sit still for me, would ya? I'd hate to slip and cut ya real good," Jerome says as the last of his boys climb into the van and shut the door behind them. They settle themselves and then they watch Jerome intently, ever loyal, ever faithful, ever eager for whatever Jerome would ask of them. 

Bruce ignores him, squirming against Jerome's front in a particularly delicious way, hissing softly when Jerome presses the knife against his skin with more intent. "Where are you taking me? What have you done to Alfred?" 

Jerome tsks and rolls his eyes. The van’s ignition turns over and soon they're pulling out of the gates of Wayne Manor, tires crunching on gravel. "Sheesh, you're no fun," Jerome complains, trailing the tip of the knife down the front of Bruce's collared throat. "What's the point of a _surprise_ if I'm just going to let you in on it prematurely? C’mon kid, humor me a little."

Bruce shifts against him and Jerome's thighs snap closed against Bruce's, squishing him and keeping him still. He's hot against the inside of Jerome's thighs, and the uncomfortable sound he makes is like music to Jerome's ears. 

“Now,” Jerome’s free hand pets at Bruce’s hair as if he were a particularly soft animal, fingers catching on a curl every now and then, looping, pulling. The affectionate gesture stands in sharp -- ha! -- contrast to the knife he keeps at the teenager’s throat. “Why don’t you be a good boy and just relax, huh? Enjoy your last car ride with some dignity.” 

His fingers halt momentarily in their petting. 

“A little bit of grace under pressure, if you will,” he amends, extended lips pulling higher in his own amusement, unable to help himself from giggling at his parroting of his own words, and Bruce makes an irritated sound in response. 

Bruce falls quiet then, and Jerome honestly doesn’t expect him to say anything more. It's a little boring but Jerome knows Bruce isn't the pathetic sort to whine and cry and beg for his life. He entertains himself with resuming his petting, tracing his fingers through soft hair, a kitten’s baby fluff. He wonders if Bruce’s hair is naturally like this, or if he’s one of those rich boys that spends a working class man’s paycheck twice over solely on hair products.

Bruce’s body is tight and tense against him, unmoving, so dissimilar to the last time they were like this, chest to back. Jerome can feel Bruce’s bound hands clenching, fingernails likely digging into his palms. He wonders if Bruce would do it hard enough to draw blood. Jerome would gladly lap it up; he’s more than eager for the taste of the bluest of bloods on his tongue. 

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” Bruce’s voice cuts through the rumble of the van’s engine and Jerome’s absentminded musing, smooth and deep over the steel of his determination. If Jerome were a lesser man he thinks he may have swooned at the sound. It's almost a shame Bruce won't get to live long enough to grow into a man. He'd be quite the lady-killer, if his current looks are anything to go by.

Jerome tilts his head, staring at the resolved downturn of Bruce’s pink lips.

“But I’ll stop you. I won’t let you hurt anybody else. I won’t let you destroy this city.”

A grin splits Jerome's lips.

_That’s more like it._

He taps the tip of the knife against Bruce’s sweater, humming before barking out a laugh. His fingers knot into Bruce’s hair and _yank_ , forcing Bruce’s head back, reveling in the soft grunt knocked from Bruce’s throat. 

Jerome breathes an excited giggle as his lips ghost over the shell of Bruce’s ear.

“Oh darlin’, I look forward to seeing you try.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated 😌


End file.
